The Tale of Will the Shinigami
by the-name's-Nimthiriel
Summary: On December 16th, 1799 at 4 P.M., Thomas Wallis was struck by a carriage, minutes before he was to submit his first approved work to the London Publishing House. The pages of his draft were scattered in the collision, but somehow, his work was able to be posthumously published. And this is it. This is Wallis' "The Tale of Will the Shinigami" (Cover art by Emmanuel Park)


Once upon a time, a young man lay dying. The pistol in his right hand gleamed in the moonlight, cold and unforgiving metal, while blood pooled in an ardent, macabre rose around his head. The night and the crawling pain from the wound knitted together to form a blindfold, but he was aware of hands, soft hands, cradling his head and stroking promises of recovery into his hair, and hands, rough hands, pressing cloth and curses into his temple.

 _It's too late for that,_ he thought, almost content. _Keep your cloth, and your promises, and your curses, and your doctors. Let me sleep._

As if to answer his wish, darkness washed over him like a tide, the final flood, and the hands slowly lowered his head, as if knowing there was no soul left to hold.

Dimly, the young man was aware of something piercing his chest. It was terrible, a chilling bolt of hopelessness, emptiness. An opaque figure with luminous eyes hovered above him, and his life danced past in snatches of sound and color. His mother singing softly in the flickering firelight. A girl in a green dress. Ink-stained fingers. Smoke and flames and screams and gunshots and horror and the hollow eyes of friends gone where none can follow. A final burst of radiance. The figure smiled. Then nothing.

When the young man's eyes opened, he found himself looking at a blank ceiling. He gradually became aware of cotton sheets, sunlight, and the almost imperceptible clink of metal.

"Am I in Heaven?" he murmured, his hand reaching up to feel the smooth skin of his forehead. No bullet wound.

"Do you deserve it?" The voice, cool and detached, came from the corner of the room. The young man shot up. A figure leaned against the wall; black suit, eyes hidden behind the glare of glasses, in his hand a… garden rake? His posture exuded apathy, but the arm holding the rake bristled with latent energy, as if anticipating a fight.

"Aren't I dead?" Surely he must be. No one could survive a gunshot to the head, let alone think articulately afterwards. Besides, he distinctly remembered his concluding breath in a sonata of blood and shadows, and the blinding trickle of memories being siphoned from his body. Definitely dead.

He stumbled to the washbasin, feeling the gaze of the unknown figure following him. He peered into the mirror, and took inventory of his appearance. Looks-wise he seemed unchanged. Short, dark hair, fine nose, placid mouth, fair complexion, and his eyes were – oh! His eyes were no longer blue like his mother's favorite tea set. They were yellow, glowing with an almost predatory attentiveness, and his pupils were ringed in a bright circle of chartreuse.

As the young man gaped at his reflection, experimentally poking his face as if that would change anything, the figure stepped forward, eyes still shielded by the brilliance of his sun-struck glasses.

"Dead indeed," it confirmed. "I had the pleasure of viewing your Cinematic Record before taking your soul." A disconcerting smile settled on his lips. "Pretty girl you had there, by the way. It's a shame there's nothing to be done for her now. My condolences."

"Th-thank you," the young man stammered. He hadn't the slightest idea how he was supposed to react to such a statement, and was beginning to think maybe he _hadn't_ died, maybe he put the pistol to his head and this was some sort of epiphany, some flash of forewarning before he pulled the trigger. Yes, surely that was it, because –

"Quite a brave little act you pulled back there with that pistol," the figure continued. And that was when the young man's world ended. It didn't shatter into a thousand pieces, like a crystal goblet being dropped by a clumsy servant. It crumpled, folding in on itself, huddling against the darkness. He was truly dead, then.

He sank to the ground and sobbed. But why? He had wanted this, hadn't he? He himself had put the pistol to his skull, felt the cold ring of metal like the world's goodbye kiss, ordered the muscles in the finger curling around the trigger to pull. Only now, with the thread that had kept him tethered to life (horrifying as it was) gone and incapable of being stitched back, did he feel his absence. _No one will remember me,_ he thought with a sickening jolt. _They will mourn, but soon I will fade from their memory like a stain being scrubbed out._

"Then I'm not in Heaven," he choked out. It was an ugly sound and he resented himself for it, but made no attempts to stop. The figure gazed down at him, lofty from his height, and passed the garden rake to the other hand.

"Death does not hold a promised entry into Heaven," it said. "God does not look lightly upon those who cannot see the value of life, and as a result, they exist in a suspension between damnation and salvation. As punishment for not recognizing the worth of their lives, they are confronted with the struggles of the dying and forced to judge if it will be their last." The figure bowed his head and his eyes were finally visible: the same unnatural yellow and green.

"You may have heard of them. Us. Shinigami. Gods of death." His tone had transitioned to something close to solemnity now.

The young man felt the creeping tendrils of dread clamp around his heart. _No. Stop_ , he wanted to say. _I'm not one of you_. The figure's lips framed the words anyway.

"Welcome, William T. Spears."

 **A/N: This is my first fanfiction ever (woo!) and I still don't really know how this works, so any reviews/suggestions for improvement/advice would be greatly appreciated! (And you'll get Grell's eternal admiration)**


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